


Remedial Action

by paintstroke



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Homophobic Language, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Escapism, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-PC language, Slice of Life, Surfing, Underage Drinking, background Trombley/OFC, boys and video games, handjobs, infidelity applies to Trombley/OFC, non-exemplary behaviour, vaguely domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28431813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke
Summary: Trombley knows he’s not supposed to be with the platoon, he’s not First Recon. Not yet. The only thing that might impress the other marines is his shooting accuracy, and the whole war seems designed to keep targets out of his sector. It’s bullshit.Back stateside, after his first deployment, it’s more of the same. Throughout it all, Walt is there at his side, offering insight into things that Trombley isn’t willing to see.At least not at first.
Relationships: Walt Hasser/James Trombley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Remedial Action

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing a gift fic for Kathikon earlier this year. This was my back-up, as I had a lot of anxiety over (failing at) writing in the horror genre; but writing a serious Walt/Trombley fic was just as daunting. Trombley’s a difficult character for me to inhabit; I’m not sure how “in his head” I’ve actually got over these two fics. I’m also not sure how much this fills Kathikon's other various prompts, but here are some flashes of domesticity, slice of life, a dash of angst, maybe some fluff (is there a tag for an attempt at fluff? Like 'buzzcut fluff' - it ended up more spikey than I intended!), and those bonus points for surfing being mentioned. ;)

**Somewhere in Iraq**

The humvee jerked rapidly to the right. 

“God _damn_ these potholes,” Corporal Person said, drawing the words out and making sure that everyone in the victor knew that there were no such potholes. Trombley shifted and stared out at his sector. 

He must have dozed off because he couldn’t remember exactly what the Sergeant had said this time, but there was a thick silence spreading from the front seat.

The humvee swerved again and Trombley had to cut off his own initial reaction. He heard Walt grunt, boots clanking on the metal block next to him. Trombley couldn’t see much of Walt but could imagine that the side of the turret was pressing a bruise into his hip with every unnecessary zigzag.

He shifted the barrel of his SAW so it wasn’t resting directly on the window ledge, his hand cushioning it to kill the rattle. He glanced back at Walt’s calves, wondering why Walt didn’t say anything himself when it must be hurting him the most. 

One more promotion, he told himself, narrowing his eyes at the back of the driver’s seat. One more promotion, and then he could step in, let Person know how he really felt. 

He didn’t question why it was Walt’s assumed pain that made him so determined to step in.

  


* * *

  


**The California Coast**

Trombley was dozing in the vehicle, head against the window. The swerve of the car tipped his head forward, and he jerked awake, fingers immediately trying to clench around a SAW that was no longer with him. 

“You good?” Walt asked, shifting the car into park.

He missed the weight of the SAW in his arms. Trombley blinked away the memories, reminding himself of the present. “Yeah,” he said. “Good.”

The sun was rising somewhere behind them, the line of the pacific an inky gray smudge tipped with white. 

Trombley got out of the vehicle, pulling his wetsuit from the bag casually tossed in the backseat. “What if we run into the Sergeant or someone?” he asked, wondering if they’d driven far enough from base to actually relax. 

Walt shrugged. “Bet if Brad’s got a pass he’ll be after bigger waves.”

Trombley felt that annoy him. It shouldn’t, but it did. He knew that Brad had grown up out here. Neither of them had. It still irritated him; one more thing he wasn’t good enough at. “Whatever.”

Trombley ducked his head and struggled with the neoprene. He glanced up, catching the flex of muscles as Walt pulled up the zipper on his shortie on the other side of the car. He made it seem so easy. Walt wasn’t paying attention to Trombley though. Walt opened the back door of the old sedan, standing on the footwell to start unstrapping the boards from the roofrack. 

Despite the early hour, surfing ended up being a fun way to spend a morning. Different from wake-boarding, which was the closest thing Trombley could compare it to. He wasn’t good, but neither was Walt, and it didn’t matter when they were laughing at each other’s spills. 

As the water got more crowded, they lay in the sun-warmed sand, ceding the wave break to the more experienced surfers. 

“Is your wife gonna move out here?” Walt asked, out of nowhere.

Trombley stared up at the clouds. “She doesn’t want to be alone out here when I deploy. She’s staying with her mom.”

Walt made a sympathetic noise. 

Trombley picked at the sand, grains spilling through his fingers. 

Trombley could vividly remember Walt smelling letters from home. 

“What about your girl? Gonna get hitched for the nicer digs?” 

Trombley didn’t like that thought, not particularly. He liked Walt’s company.

Trombley looked over when he didn’t get an immediate answer. 

Walt slowly shook his head. He sat up, dusting off the sand from his legs. “What do you want for lunch?”

Trombley forced a laugh. “If it’s not an MRE I’m happy.”

“Burgers?”

“Sure.”

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

“Sergeant Colbert told me to relieve you,” Trombley told the darkness above the humvee. 

There was a shuffle and faint thumps as Hasser extracted himself from the turret. “C’mon up,” Hasser whispered. 

Trombley passed up his SAW ahead of him and climbed onto the roof. 

Hasser sat cross-legged on the vehicle roof, apparently not in a hurry to get to sleep. His red flashlight flicked on. He helpfully trained it over Trombley’s shoulder.

“I’ve got it ranged to 1200 meters. Should be out to that rocky outcrop. There’s not many good reference points out there. Keep her between 11 and 1. Shouldn’t be any patrols out, anything human and moving is suss.” 

Trombley dropped his feet into the turret-hole. Hasser had left a range card in his neat printing on the roof.

“She still jamming?” Trombley asked. 

“Yeah, keep your SAW ready.”

Trombley checked the safety, ran through the protocol, checking the feed and the ammo.

Hasser kept kept staring at him.

It made Trombley bristle. He’d been through basic. He _knew_ guns. It was about the only thing that he was confident about out here.

“I got this,” Trombley said, a bit sharply. 

Hasser shook his head. “Yeah, man. I didn’t mean—” he trailed off, shaking his head. He sighed. 

When he spoke again, his voice was a lot quieter. “I just wanted to say that I woulda shot too. If the MK-19 hadn’t have jammed. Just… so you know.”

Trombley pulled the charging handles back into position. He glanced over the berm. “So?” He didn’t see how that mattered. 

Hasser was quiet for another moment. “Just thought you’d wanna know.” His voice was thin and faint, as if the desert air had crept into it and taken over. 

Trombley shrugged. He looked down at the range card, making sure that limits of his field were firmly in mind. 

He’d followed orders. 

Hasser peered over the edge of the Humvee’s roof, where their graves had been dug in a bleak line. He sat back up.

“I think I saw Brad cry.” Hasser sounded shaken, his voice still low.

 _That_ broke through some of Trombley’s emotional armor. He admired Sergeant Colbert. Trombley looked up to him — he wanted a grenade launcher and a team leader position, wanted that deference for himself one day. 

But he wasn’t one to cry. Certainly not over a mistaken target. Trombley curled his lip. He was about to sneer something about that when he caught sight of Hasser’s expression. It stopped him cold, and he rethought his reflexive mockery.

Trombley shrugged again, and pulled his gaiter up around his neck. The nights were chilly, despite the heat of the day. “Whatever. The Sergeant said it’ll be fine. We don’t gotta worry.”

  


* * *

  


**Pendleton**

“BRC starts in two weeks.” Trombley said, staring at the ceiling. There were some whoops from outside. He wasn’t curious enough to get up and go see what was happening. Fucking barracks life. What a mess. 

Walt shifted on his bunk, pulling out one of his earphones. “Wha—?” he asked sleepily. 

The feeling — the _certainty_ — that he’d wash out of BRC was setting in. He didn’t know how he’d live it down. If he went in with the bravado that he’d taken into combat… 

“BRC starts soon,” Trombley repeated himself.

What if it proved the older marines right, that he’d never belonged there? He was infantry. He could shoot. He’d proved he was just as good as any of the reconnaissance marines, or near enough. ‘Good enough for recon?’ shouldn’t have been a question. He’d _been_ recon. He shouldn’t have to go back to BRC at all. 

“So you’ll be off training for the summer then.” Walt rolled onto his side, glancing Trombley’s way. 

“Yeah.”

“When’s the start date?”

Trombley told him, and Walt seemed to file that knowledge away. “You gonna be here until it starts?”

Trombley shrugged. “Used up my block leave already.” 

Walt nodded. “Guess so then.” Walt put his headphones back on, and picked up his book. 

Trombley stared at the ceiling again. He curled a lip at himself in the darkness. He didn’t need reassurance. He wasn’t sure why he’d hoped for that from Walt.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

They stopped to refuel, met by one of the tankers at the edge of the MSR. Another army division rolled by. 

“You happy taking a shift on the MK-19 while we roll?” Sergeant Colbert glanced at him. 

“Yes, sergeant,” Trombley said. 

He hoped that he got a chance to shoot it, but that was probably too much to ask for. 

Still, it was a decent change. He could see more, but he couldn’t hear as much, not unless Colbert or Person really yelled. The wind was strong. A slightly different view of nothing, but he was happy to leave the airfield behind. The investigation into the shooting would take a while, but up here, it felt like he could outrun the consequences.

  


* * *

  


**Outside of San Diego**

It should be easy to be happy. 

Trombley watched the gathering crowds with a slightly sullen look. Walt let the sand run through his fingers and smirked. “Too many people for you?”

“Liked it better empty,” Trombley said, because that had become a theme on their outings. His response was expected.

Walt looked at him. Trombley knew the sun had brought out his own freckles - he didn’t quite get a tan so much as an explosion of texture. Walt’s own tan had evened out and deepened, his skin clearing over the summer with the steady California sun. He looked annoyingly good.

Trombley dug a rock out of the beach sand and threw it towards the waves. “I think 2nd battalion’s gonna be sent over again soon.” 

He expected it’d be the orders for all of them soon enough. Half of Bravo Two was still out at various schools, apparently. Walt’d been given command training while Trombley had suffered through the BRC. Trombley wasn’t sure what place Walt’d be assigned for the next tour, if he’ll be an RTO or stay a gunner or be sentenced to driving. But he didn’t want to think of that right now, or about the reports of the IEDs and resistance.

Right now there was sun and sand and surf. 

“Sucks that you didn’t get reassigned to 1st recon.” Walt offered. “Glad I ran into you before you shipped out.”

“Yeah.” Trombley said, uncomfortable with the sentiment. 

Walt gave a soft, knowing laugh. “Yeah,” he echoed.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

It was the reputation of the recon marines that had made Trombley consider applying in the beginning. He’d imagined that the skills involved would have been more killing and less _drawing_ , though.

He was faintly jealous of Hasser, since Hasser got to stay behind and man the Mk-19. Sergeant Colbert was in full-on mentor mode though, and Trombley wasn’t going to give up that opportunity. 

They lay on their fronts in the dirt, side by side, barely looking over the top of the defilade.

Every once in a while, Sergeant Colbert glanced over at his work. Trombley felt the need to cover up his sketch whenever he noticed.

“Try to pick out a few landmarks first to get the perspective down,” the Sergeant said softly. 

Trombley scowled at his paper and then peered through the scope again. If he’d wanted art lessons he would have chosen a different career. “Can’t we just take some photos?” he muttered, hungry and tired and on edge.

The Sergeant’s voice was soft and reasonable, almost sweet. “Do you have a camera on you?” 

Trombley scowled at the glass and erased another line.

  


* * *

  


**Pendleton**

The rum was freeflowing, everyone trying to drink surreptitiously and failing miserably as the night ticked on. The group of plastic chairs below the barracks window now held a sing-a-long of some sort; Trombley almost missed Corporal Person — at least he could actually play, he wasn’t sure about the guy who currently had the guitar. Or maybe the guitar was missing half its strings. It was difficult to tell.

Walt had a disposable camera in hand. “Get in here,” he said, locking his arm around Trombley’s shoulder. “And try not to smile like a psychopath.”

That actually _did_ make Trombley grin. He put up with the flares spotting his vision as he blinked just because it meant that he’d get sent a copy of the photo, get to keep a version of Walt’s own smile.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

Trombley watched. He saw the way Corporal Person tried to harass Hasser into interacting. 

When Fick came over to their group again and exchanged words with Hasser, Trombley saw the way Hasser’s fingers tightened over his pencil. He was frozen for a while after the Lieutenant moved away. 

Trombley dug through his bag, finding his own hidden stash. He opened one of the few red bags, offering the Skittles to Hasser. He knew from Mathilda that Hasser ate them methodically, separating them out by color. 

But when Trombley rattled the bag at him — an actual fucking treasure, this far into the campaign — Hasser just shook his head.

  


* * *

  


**San Diego**

Walt’s older brother was in the force too, and he had a place off base. “You should come over when you get a pass,” Walt offered. 

Trombley did. It was nice to have a day to play video games. They played Ghost Recon on the PS2, trading off until the twitch of their index fingers on the controller didn’t feel like something was missing. 

There was a lot of beer, also left by Walt’s older brother. Walt grabbed Trombley one from the fridge. Trombley left it on the coffee table, more interested in the game. “He stays at his girlfriend’s,” Walt said in explanation of the brother’s absence. “I bet next time I’m back he’s moved in with her.”

“You still got a girlfriend?” Trombley asks. He didn’t care. He told himself that. It wasn’t like he remembered Walt with a distant smile, smelling letters like a sap. 

“Nah.” One syllable. 

Trombley nodded. He wasn’t a girl. He didn’t fucking care about the details. He also didn’t want to feel disturbingly pleased by that info. 

“You still got a wife?”

Trombley didn’t wear a ring. There was a sinking feeling in his gut. He blamed the shitty alcohol. It was sitting funny. “I guess.”

They shot more CG Russians. 

“Fuck this shit,” Trombley said when he died. “This map’s fucked up.” He threw the controller towards the coffee table and finally picked up the new beer. The condensation made it slippery in his hand. 

Walt smirked. “Yeah, whatever.” 

His eyes were still glued to the screen. It made Trombley bold enough to watch Walt, and not the game.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

“How long until things felt normal again?” Hasser asked quietly. 

Trombley shrugged. The whole question felt foreign to him. “What do you mean?”

“After the shepherds?”

Trombley didn’t understand why Hasser didn’t get it. “Everyone was declared hostile. Whatever stick they were carrying could have been an RPG launcher, right? You’ve seen what a hit from one of those does.”

They’d all seen the vehicles, bloody and shattered, pushed off to the side of the road. Abandoned. 

Once the investigation had been wrapped up, he hadn’t even thought about the shepherds. Bleeding hearts would lead to hesitation would lead to them all getting killed. 

“Nothing seems real.” Hasser muttered.

That, Trombley could agree with. He glanced over at Hasser. Hasser picked at the grass he was sitting by, ripping the stalks. The repetitive gesture seemed to soothe him. 

It was one of the first time he felt like he was really talking to him. It had been an awkward introduction to recon, being shipped out with them, without feeling like he had the street credit behind his name. He wasn’t meant to be here. His attempts to seem cooler than he was had all backfired, and back at Mathilda he had borne the brunt of the team’s harassment. 

Trombley glanced up at the POG camp, and decided to clean his weapon to give his hands something to do. It was that or tear up the grass like Hasser. 

It took him a while to think of what he should say.

“Y’know… it’s the same thing at the roadblock, Walt. The LT said that there were suicide bombers ramming checkpoints.”

Hasser frowned. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

Trombley knew it. He shrugged and lied. “Close enough.”

  


* * *

  


**San Diego**

He had kept up as the casual drinking transitioned into something more, matching Walt beer for beer. 

His first thoughts were wondering what Walt was trying to escape; what he was trying to get the courage for. There seemed to be an intention behind the bottles, but he couldn’t see it. And he couldn’t ask, so he drank as well, until the game started to lag and blur, until his shots missed more often than not. 

Until he took a kill shot.

Trombley slouched back on the couch, ready to pass the controller over.

He turned to Walt. Walt was looking back at him. He was so close. 

Walt slipped his hand over Trombley’s. Walt looked too focused for how much he’d been drinking. There was an intensity behind his gaze.

“Walt…” Trombley said, uncertainly.

Walt leaned in even closer, as if his name was permission. 

Walt’s lips pressed into the side of his cheek, and Trombley was utterly frozen. Walt shifted, his lips like velvet as they dragged against Trombley’s, slowly transitioning into a proper kiss. As far as kisses went, it was chaste, tentative.

Trombley was pretty sure he’d never gotten so hard so fast from a simple kiss. He didn’t dare to move and after a moment, Walt pulled back slightly.

“James…” Walt whispered, searching Trombley’s face as if it held an answer. 

Trombley’s own reaction stunned him. The shame heated his face, burned his ears. He leaned away, turning his face so that he wouldn’t have to look at Walt and think about pushing him down into the couch. The potential for more seemed to hang in the air between them.

Trombley shifted uneasily. He realized his hand was still under Walt’s, and pulled it free.

“What the fuck?” he asked instead, but he couldn’t gather the heat or anger that he’d intended. The words came out quiet, contemplative instead. 

Walt leaned away. The space between their bodies increased. Trombley adjusted himself uneasily. 

“’M too drunk for this,” Walt said, turning off his controller. 

Trombley was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. “Yeah…” he agreed, unsteadily. “Guess that’s it.” His pulse was still racing. 

Walt covered his own eyes. “Sorry. Just forget… that. I don’t know…”

Trombley didn’t want to forget it, though. It made it so much worse. 

He looked at Walt, who looked miserable, hiding his face. 

“Just the alcohol, man,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “That’s all.” They both knew that that was a lie. 

He wanted to kiss Walt again. His stomach felt like he was in freefall. If anyone had asked him a week ago, he was sure he would have predicted that he’d throw a punch in response. Now he wanted to pull Walt’s hands away from his eyes and kiss him again. 

Fuck. 

“We both drank too much. Won’ even remember,” he muttered. “I’ll… just go catch a cab.”

Either way, he’d hate himself. He stood up unsteadily, finding his phone in his jacket. 

He glanced back once. Walt was still on the couch, head leaned back, hands hands over his eyes. The bottles from the evening obscured most of the coffee table. 

Trombley shook his head, grateful that the room wasn’t spinning. He waited by the door a moment, maybe for Walt to call him back, maybe just to gather the courage to head out into the night. 

Walt stayed silent and let him leave.

  


* * *

  


**Baghdad**

The smell of the cigarette factory made him almost nostalgic for something he couldn’t quite put a finger on. An old house, the smell of one of his mother’s boyfriends, maybe. He had avoided dip, but took a few packages of shitty cigarettes, like some of the other marines did. Trombley tucked them into his pack. A souvenir of some sort, he guessed. 

They had walls around them, so light discipline was lessened. It wasn’t as if the USMC was _hiding_ in the warehouse. It was still close quarters. They slept laid out by the humvees. He felt exposed without a grave, although he was happy enough not to have to dig a hole. The crack of the sniper rifles went off periodically. His body was tired but his mind refused to shut off, and tried to count the gunshots like sheep. One dead haji, two dead hajis.

The shots were too sparse though, and his mind wandered in the intervening silences.

The sound of skin on skin from somewhere across the yard let Trombley know that he wasn’t the only one having a difficult time falling asleep. He tried to block it out. He didn’t want to think about that. He turned over onto his side, and caught sight of Walt lying, staring back at the sky, which was occasionally still lighting up with the rumbling firefight in the distance.

Walt glanced over at the movement and met Trombley’s eyes. For a moment, they were just two teenagers, having to listen to someone else beating off. Walt gave his crooked smile and Trombley fought an answering grin; if he broke now he was going to start laughing. Trombley dragged a corner of his sweatshirt over his head from where he’d been using it as a pillow, and tried to block out both the noises and Walt’s smile.

He couldn’t break now.

  


* * *

  


**Pendleton**

Trombley was placed with RCT-5’s recon unit. It was a fresh start, twenty-two new men to get to know. Some had heard of him. It made him proud, but that made him think of Walt’s quiet admiration and he shoved that pride down.

Shame always followed pride. 

“Walt was here looking for you,” his roommate David said when Trombley got back from the PX one night. 

Trombley didn’t let any of his fear show on his face. His first instinct was to lash out. “What did that asshole want?” he asked, crude and hurtful and defensive. He was suddenly very, very aware of his own lips. He wondered if it was written on his face, what they’d done.

His roommate shrugged. “Didn’t leave a message. Did you bring back Pringles?” 

Trombley rolled his eyes and threw a tube at David. “Yeah.” 

He set the rest of his things down, wondering if Walt had stuck around waiting. 

He considered heading over to where Bravo Two was bunked. But that was far, and he didn’t want to look gay. 

“You got a pass again this weekend?” David asked.

Trombley hesitated. A pass had usually meant going to Walt’s. He wasn’t sure what that would mean after how he had left things. 

“I dunno.”

There was a pause. “I thought you would.” It was almost accusatory.

“I never said anything,” Trombley flopped down onto his bunk.

“You could find somewhere else to be for a few hours though, yeah?”

Trombley winced. “Yeah man. No problem.”

Fucking barracks rats.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

There were a few letters from his fiancée, and Trombley opened them in hope. He flipped through the papers quickly, hoping for photos.

There was one, of a sort. An ultrasound, printed on flimsy, thin slippery paper. He breathed out. In this one he could identify some of the shapes — the baby was looking more like a human and less like a blob. He shook out the other letters but she hadn’t sent a picture of herself. 

Manimal walked by and whistled when he leaned over Trombley’s shoulder, pressing into his space. “Any titty pics from the old lady? Bet they’re getting huge now,” Jacks grabbed his own chest and laughed a little. Trombley shoved at him. Jacks relented, and turned to bellow after the dude with the mail bag. 

Trombley bristled and glared a little, making sure that no one else came to take a look and sat down to read. 

Old Lady. _Wife._ It still felt strange, like he was stepping into someone elses’ uniform. It felt like it had been years since they’d been in high school together. Years since the bright point of his day had been signing into MSN Messenger and looking through the emojis at the top, picking out _her_ name from the mix of song lyrics the popular girls liked. 

He hadn’t really gotten used to the idea of being married.

He’d talked big, back then. He was going to save his money from the tour, buy her a flashy engagement ring. Maybe do another tour, suffer through the long distance nobly, make enough for a down payment on a house. 

But the baby had changed everything. 

He decided to save the letters for later. He looked over, and wondered who Walt had at home. He was doing the same thing he’d done back at Mathilda, smelling the letter and looking off into the distance.

  


* * *

  


**The California Coast**

Walt kissed him again on an abandoned beach. 

The sun had already set, leaving them in the cover of darkness. 

Trombley had found excuses to return the little touches, shoulder-to-shoulder, a hand on Walt’s arm briefly. Very briefly. It never felt natural. He had to think about them very, very carefully.

He’d seen the way Walt’s gaze drifted on his face, dipping to his lips instead of holding his gaze. It was exciting. His heart was racing. He hoped the darkness hid his flush.

This time, when Walt leaned in, Trombley didn’t pull away. 

Walt’s kisses became more demanding. There was a softness to them at first, but it was a veneer, covering a hunger that Trombley knew all too well. 

Walt’s hand rested at the top of Trombley’s pants, hooking just over the button of his fly. “Is this okay?” Walt asked. 

Trombley wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t drunk this time. There wasn’t an excuse, nothing but his own sick desire. “I don’t know,” he said, even as he pressed against Walt. It was too much. He couldn’t agree to this. He couldn’t want this. He pushed his body into Walt and silently begged the other man to take over.

Walt’s palm pressed with slightly more intent. “How long has it been since you’ve had anyone else’s hands on you?” The edge of desperation in his words was all too familiar.

Trombley shuddered. “Too long.” He rocked his hips forward. 

“Okay?”

Trombley shut his eyes and nodded.

“It’s okay if you close your eyes,” Walt said. “If you don’t want it to be me, that’s okay, I don’t care who you’re thinking of.”

It was a coward’s way out, but at the moment he didn’t care. The rock was rough beneath Trombley’s shoulder blades. He concentrated on that, on the crash of the ocean. The air held the scent of brine, fishier than the lakes he’d grown up with but not unpleasant. 

He had to stop himself from wrapping a hand around Walt’s hand, from fixing the tentative rhythm Walt found, it was too soft, slightly too slow, not his own touch. 

And yet… despite that…

He didn’t think it was just that last fact that made it feel so good. He shuddered against the rock, losing some of his defenses. He stopped caring about the openness of the location. He rocked forward to meet Walt’s movements. 

“James…” Walt whispered. 

The way Walt said his name just _got_ to him. 

He fumbled with Walt’s pants. He wasn’t going to fuck this up, too. He’d made too many mistakes already. He wasn’t going to hang back now. 

“Hey, James, it’s okay. You don’t need to,” Walt whispered. The words felt warm and wet against his neck, as if they had weight. 

Fuck not ‘needing’ too. 

Trombley yanked at Walt’s drawstring in frustration, ending up pulling Walt’s sweats down just enough. He forged forward, trying to cover his own awkwardness with false confidence, like he knew how to touch another guy, like he’d done this before, like this wasn’t half-horrifying. The responses Walt made stitched his navel to his spine, sending heat everywhere. The rush of power was thrilling; it was _his_ touch that made Walt gasp like that.

His clumsy attempts also seemed to spur Walt on. 

His own grip was probably too tight for Walt but he didn’t relent. Walt’s muffled, pleased noises were almost addictive. 

“Is this what you want?” Trombley asked. The words were almost accusatory, as if he could transfer all the responsibility to Walt. This wasn’t _him_. 

Walt didn’t seem to mind. “Yes,” he panted against Trombley’s neck. “Yes.”

“Fuck it.” Trombley shifted, nosing into Walt’s cheek, pressing their lips together. Walt moaned into his mouth and moved faster. Trombley felt himself start to slip towards the inevitable, tension building at the base of his spine. Walt’s mouth was warm against his, open and slick and suddenly he wasn’t sure if there was a time when he _didn’t_ want this. 

And he wanted more. “Come on,” he whispered, pleading. 

Walt released his grip, and Trombley hissed, caught between despair and exaltation. “I was nearly there,” he whispered, “why—”

Walt gently nudged Trombley’s hand off of him, and Trombley jerked upwards, scanning the horizon. They were still alone. Adrenaline and excitement both made his heart pound, racing in his chest. 

But Walt wasn’t moving because he’d heard someone else. 

Walt shifted his body closer, took them both into his hand. Oh. Trombley shivered at the new sensation. It didn’t take Trombley long to get back to that point. Trombley looked down, then immediately shut his eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted as Walt kept his hand moving, their cocks pressed together, skin against skin. He wanted this to last longer than it was going to. The knowledge that he was feeling what Walt was feeling was too much. 

Trombley froze, spilling over Walt’s hand as his orgasm locked his hips forward. Walt pulled him threw it, then jerked himself off until he came on the sand between Trombley’s feet.

The soft noises Walt made would be etched into Trombley’s brain for a long, long time.

  


* * *

  


**Iraq**

“Trombley, Walt, guard the south approach.”

“Can I waste anyone that approaches?” 

“Negative.” The sergeant just looked tired when he replied. “Call it in. Shoot only if they start shooting or if you feel like you are in danger.”

Trombley looked over to Walt and gave a cavalier shrug. 

He lifted his NGVs and scanned the dusty landscape. The road into the compound was to their west, so they were just staring at an empty expanse.

Riveting. 

Walt settled in behind the Mk-19. The minutes ticked over. Trombley vaguely heard the men inside the power station, heard crashes and shouts as they explored. 

The desert scrub in front of them was silent. They got stuck with the shit duty again. It could have been hours or minutes before that changed; time had little meaning.

“Approaching foot mobile,” Walt interrupted the monotony, glancing over his shoulder. “At our six.”

Trombley looked behind him and saw the familiar silhouette of the sergeant approaching them. “Roger that,” he confirmed. He pulled the horn out from the straps of his flak vest and offered it.

The sergeant took it and Trombley headed back towards the power building, where they’d stowed their gear earlier. Hasser climbed up out of the turret to join him. 

“Oh boys,” Sergeant Colbert said, turning back to them. They both froze. Trombley wavered between expecting a salty compliment about them not shooting anyone this night or a reprimand for missing something. 

“There are water containers on the eastern side of the building.” 

Trombley nodded, the ache of the lack of sleep kicking in. The point? He tried to communicate the question with the height of his eyebrows. 

“Poke’s rigged up a gravity shower. Get clean, then get some rest. Can’t guarantee how long they’ll keep us here, take advantage of it while you can.”

They were tired, but not tired enough to disobey a ‘suggestion’ from their team leader. They slipped inside to get their packs first — both of them wanted clean underwear and socks to make the shower worth it.

There was a difference between showering with the whole platoon and showering with one other guy, though. 

“Watch my six,” Hasser said, stripping down when he neared the edge of the muddy concrete. It wasn’t fancy. 

Trombley turned away when Hasser got his BDU jacket off, scanning between the structures inside the yard with his gun at the ready. Realistically, anyone at the perimeter would be the first to sound the alarm, but dropping armor could make any of them feel vulnerable. 

A lever, a disconnected pipe and a tarp with holes stabbed through it hung beneath the structure. 

“Hurry up,” Trombley hissed, chancing a glance back when he didn’t hear water. 

“Give me a second to figure this out,” Hasser snapped back in a low voice. 

There was a splattering sound and Hasser swore. 

Trombley turned around to see Hasser shaking water out of his BDU pants. “Lever fills up the tarp,” Hasser said grumpily, and pulled off his suspenders and undershirt. Trombley smirked. “Saves on laundry,” he felt bold enough to say. 

Trombley watched for a moment. Only for a moment. Then he remembered he didn’t want to see another dude naked and turned away.

  


* * *

  


**San Diego**

They don’t talk about it after it happens. 

Walt drove them from the beach back to his brother’s place. It was late. They stopped for take out on the way, gigantic plastic cups of soda wedged into the cup holders between them, greasy paper bags on the backseat. The order was the only thing they discussed. 

Trombley wasn’t sure what to do with the silence. The sense of shame and guilt followed him. “I’m not gay,” he said, finally.

Trombley could tell by the tight smile that Walt had heard him. Walt finally looked over to the passenger side when he stopped at a red light. “Right. Yeah.”

Trombley shifted uneasily, because it didn’t look like Walt believed him. Walt shook his head, dropped his gaze to his drink, and took a long sip. He jammed his foot onto the accelerator when the light changed, and Trombley was eerily reminded of Corporal Person. 

Walt relented in a few streets and sighed. “Look, we could be mobilized at any time. I’m not asking you to be my fucking boyfriend. You don’t have to freak out.” 

Walt stared out at the streets. “Lots of guys do it,” he muttered. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Walt lapsed back into silence. Trombley didn’t know what to say to that, torn by his own tangle of conflicted feelings. 

They pulled into Walt’s brother’s apartment building in a sullen silence.

Trombley grabbed the food without being asked. In the silence, the lights by the outer stairs hummed loudly. 

There were things he felt, things that stayed on his mind that he wasn’t ready to deal with. A hand was a hand. He could tell himself that he’d kissed Walt because he thought Walt had wanted it, but even to himself the lie was a lot. 

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” Walt finally said. “Right?”

Trombley looked over at Walt. They were sitting across a table from each other, off-base. They’d jerked each other off at the beach. They’d kissed. 

It was nothing _but_ weirdness. “Yeah. I guess.”

Just something two dudes did.

They ate in silence for a while. 

“No one can know,” Trombley finally said. 

Walt sighed, focused intently on his fries. “Obviously,” he said, his expression growing dark.

Trombley threw away their garbage, and slid the disc for Need for Speed Underground into the PS2, trying to trigger a return to their normal friendship. And yet… Trombley kept glancing over at Walt, wondering if he wanted more, hoping he wanted to do that again. It was hard to concentrate on the game. 

After a few rounds, Walt tossed his controller onto the coffee table, dislodging a stack of magazines. “I’m going to bed,” he said.

“Alright.” Trombley watched as Walt got up. There wasn’t an invitation to come join him. 

Trombley shrugged the sense of disappointment off and switched out the Need for Speed for Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. He wasn’t tired yet. When he glanced at the clock in the kitchen, he realized it was actually still early.

He looked towards the shut bedroom door and wondered if he’d missed something.

  


* * *

  


**Baghdad**

On a soccer field, they got drunk for the first time since landing in the middle east. 

Walt’s breath smelled like rubbing alcohol when he leaned over to pass the bathtub gin to Trombley. “What if you go blind?” Trombley asked, fascinated by the unmarked bottle. He’d watched his hero down nearly half a bottle alone. Brad and the reporter had started getting too deep into maudlin philosophy, and he’d wandered off. He’d found himself with Walt and a bottle. He hadn’t been planning on buying any himself. He wasn’t sure what Walt was doing alone with him, either, instead of drinking with Brad or Garza or one of the other teams. not out here with him. Walt was friends with everyone, after all. He didn’t need to be one of the outcasts in the striped shade of the bleachers. 

Trombley had seen enough bad situations with alcohol that he hesitated when Walt offered the bottle. It was the lure of companionship that drove him to take it. His fingers brushed against Walt’s. He stared at Walt’s hands, not drinking right away. 

“Are you even old enough to drink?” Walt teased, snatching the bottle back to take another pull. His arm was warm around Trombley’s shoulder. From behind, no one would see the alcohol. That’d be the reason. 

“Fuck you.” It was the only appropriate response. Walt laughed.

The glass was almost cool under his fingers. He took the clear bottle from Walt and took a shot, carefully refusing to make a face at the harsh taste. 

He watched when Walt took it back. Walt didn’t have the same self-control — or need for it. His face scrunched and Trombley smirked, feeling like he’d won.

  


* * *

  


**San Diego**

Trombley liked sleep. He loved sleeping in when he could, it made it so much more decadent, even on a cheap couch with his hip slipping between the cushions and driving an ache into his lower back. So if he did wake up when the sun rose, his usual MO was to turn over and enjoy half-remembered dreams. 

But Trombley also liked the time he got to spend with Walt. He liked the beach, he liked video games and handjobs and driving too fast and singing as loud as they wanted to. Walt knew him in a way that no one else he’d deployed with had. 

In a way that no one else in his life did. 

He turned over. There weren’t any curtains in Walt’s brother’s apartment and the light was flooding in but the place was quiet. Walt must still be asleep.

Trombley ran a hand over his hair, momentarily missing the days before enlisting when he’d grown it long. He peeled himself off of the couch. He was surprised Walt hadn’t kicked him out. Maybe he shouldn’t be. Maybe he needed to stop lying to himself.

He threw the comforter aside, but didn’t bother finding a shirt. 

He padded into the galley kitchen, poking around in the fridge. There was white bread in the freezer, and a carton of eggs in the fridge. He rummaged through the cupboards; nothing was where he would have expected it. But the stove seemed to work, and he couldn’t fuck up toast too badly. 

He heard Walt at the kitchen doorway. There was a part of him that momentarily hated it — Walt between him and the only exit, Walt between him and freedom. 

“So,” Trombley said, trying to play it cool. This wasn’t a relationship. It couldn’t be. They were marines. He was technically still married. He wasn’t gay. But he could take a step towards where Walt was, meet him somewhere in the middle. 

“How do you like your eggs?”

  


* * *

  


**Camp Paige**

Everyone was on-edge, sleep deprived and not at their best. 

Rudy was running through a kind of queer martial art, posing and flexing naked again now that they were relatively safe. After everything they’d been through, that was what Rudy chose to do with his free time.

Trombley scowled. He’d gotten used to some of it. 

“Why do they let him be like that?” he groused. A dehydration headache had set in, setting off his temper. 

Walt followed his eyes. 

It felt good to complain. Trombley pushed a bit more. “Y’know I saw him shaving Pappy the other day. If that isn’t gay…”

Walt’s eyes held something sharp and critical rather than the agreement he wanted. Trombley felt like he was being assessed. His words trailed off.

“Do you think you’ll try to stay with Recon?” Walt asked. It felt like a non-sequitur. 

Trombley hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Walt gestured with his chin towards Rudy. He spoke in a low voice. “He can be like that because he’s _good._ Anyone would be lucky to work with him. He pushes because he knows he can get away with it.” Walt’s hand was gentle but insistent as he guided Trombley up and out of the barracks tent. They were a little ways away when Walt continued, out of earshot. “He pushes, and they let him, because being pushed by Rudy is a sign of friendship — and respect.”

Unspoken was the idea that _that_ was why Trombley still couldn’t join in most of the banter. No respect. He still wasn’t one of them, not really. Not even after three weeks of proving himself during the invasion

Walt continued though, his words taking on a warning tone, “And because if anyone reacts to it, they’re showing everyone just how insecure they are.”

Trombley heard the words, but they were difficult to accept. He’d internalized lessons early on, maybe in grade school, maybe before: lash out first — or else. Be the first one to pick on someone else, or be bullied himself. 

Walt had walked them over to a secluded field. He sat down with his back to a half-collapsed concrete wall. His voice went softer again, back to a conversation rather than a lecture.

“Y’know the reason that Sergeant Colbert doesn’t mind me singing country music isn’t because I get a pass. It’s because I’m not worth it to him to yell at, not like Ray. I’m not his friend, not close enough to be an equal.”

Trombley bit back his first thought, which was to point out that Walt’s voice was actually nice, unlike Person’s howls. 

Walt let his head fall back against the concrete cinder blocks. His blond hair was almost the same sun-bleached gold as the grasses around them. 

He was wearing his BDU pants and a PT shirt, as casual as they got out here. It was almost like civvies, almost like he could picture them sitting around back home. 

Walt looked at him, concern etched into his face. “If you wanna stay out here, you gotta _get_ that, you know?” he asked. It was half a plea. 

Trombley sensed there was something more here. He wanted to shrug, wanted to escape the uncomfortable feeling of something closing in around him. It would be the wrong move though. He dug his toes in, tried to do what Walt had suggested — he wasn’t going to be intimidated by Walt’s words. 

“I know,” he said softly. “I’ll try.” It was as much as he could honestly offer. 

Walt’s face broke into a relieved smile, and he leaned his shoulder into Trombley’s. 

Trombley bristled at the touch. 

“Good,” Walt said. “Good.” 

The sunny smile still on Walt’s face seemed disproportional. Trombley stared at him, but Walt didn’t stop. Eventually Trombley broke and smiled in return. 

Walt pressed a little more into him, leaning against him. His voice dropped, a little softer, a little quieter. 

“It’ll be good to keep you around, James.”

_Fin._


End file.
